As much as I profess to be unloved, to be unloveable, I find myself drawn, attracted, in-in love with you. All these generations of needless professions. I cannot survive as so many hopeless romantics have. I have not the will, the strength, the endurance to live without your lips being the last on mine. Your tongue the last I taste. Your heartbeat the last I hear. I cannot bear it, to live without you. Without you as my own.
And so I go on, alone, not yours and yet never my own. I stagger on in solitude toward some empty colony of unwanted souls. You, my uncompleted masterpiece, along my side in thought only. Never in life.
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